Grace
by Demeter1973
Summary: A presence from Clarice Starling's past seeks contact through her dark companion. What are her intentions, and what will be the consequences of a reunion? Set sometime after "Hannibal" and follows book canon. My first fanfic, please review!
1. Chapter 1 Saying Grace

Disclaimer – I do not own the characters of Hannibal and Clarice, but Grace is mine

Chapters 1&2 updated to fix a few boo boos . . .

Chapter 1 – Saying Grace

A woman sits quietly on the steps, watching the wind whisper through the pampas grass, their soft feathery tips quivering like the reverberations of arrows that have found their mark. She stares at the envelope resting on her lap. One word – a single syllable printed on the cover – leaves not doubt about the source, though the intent may not be clear for some time. She had been determined to set these events in motion, or so she thought, in spite of all rational arguments to the contrary. A conversation from six months prior replays in her mind:

"How far you want to take this?" asks the towering man. His affect is flat, though his tone is deadly serious.

Her gaze is steady as she speaks, her voice almost as calm. "I need answers. I thought I lost everyone, but if there is a chance –"

"Is it worth your life?" he interrupts, "People like her don't just 'get lost.' "

"I have to try – if she doesn't want to be found . . . then I won't find her, right? Or if HE doesn't want me to find her, is that it?" She hopes her doubt doesn't show_. Don't let him see you sweat, girl. If I can't handle this guy, what chance do I have with . . . well, I'll cross that bridge later. _

"What do you think you know about him?"

"I read the supermarket rags and psych journals. The Internet was particularly useful." A pointed pause, "I even got hold of a bootlegged copy of the FBI file . . . "

A grunt at the last comment, and the tiniest hint of a grudging smirk, "And?"

"And I think you know more than all of them. You spoke to both, and I think you know a lot more about what went on at the Verger place than you ever told anybody else." _Easy now. Got my show cards are on the table, let's see if he calls._

"Why would I tell you?" He replies, without any hint of intimidation or surprise.

"I don't think that have the kind of cash flow that would interest you – certainly not the kind of money that your memorabilia could fetch."

He stares down at her with eyes that give nothing away.

_Fine, big boy, here comes my trump card_. "Let's just say that a mutual acquaintance at Baylor still has a lot of interest in the subject matter. He didn't seem too impressed with your attitude regarding his analysis and is a still a little raw about that quote in the _Tattler_ you made about his 'encounter' with the subject . . . even less impressed that you mentioned his name to the feds after the investigation."

No reaction.

Steeling herself, she continues, "I think he might be willing to have a nice chat with me, seeing me as a colleague and a potential link to said subject should I share with him the information I gave you today, in good faith I might add. Might decide to send the feds _your_ way, for more information. What do you think?" She asks, with just a hint of southern sugar in her tone.

"Yeah, she liked the veiled threats, too. Started out nice, friendly, then the claws came out." He actually breaks form and laughs out loud. She's not sure whether she feels relieved or worried.

"Did she? Well aside from your help with contact, I would be interested in knowing any other information you could tell me about her. I know you weren't exactly friends, but you were friendly, right? You were friendly with both of them –"

He cuts her off "Like I told her, we didn't fraternize. He'd have killed me to get out just like anyone else who got in his way."

"But not her."

He preoccupies himself with his nails for a moment, surprisingly delicate for such large hands, as he considers. With a sigh, he finally replies. "I can help you bait the hook, but that's all. I don't know anything else and I DON'T want to know where you go from there. Aside from that, I can give you a copy of the tapes, on the house. She talks a lot – you can get your information from those. I don't want to see you again."

"I can live with that. Thanks Barney."

She had been more than a little scared, of course. The guy's really big, and she wasn't used to playing bad cop, or any kind of cop for that matter. She knew more about the costs of life by the gun than most. Sighing, she looked back out over her garden, a bright spot in an otherwise typically bland suburban neighborhood. Subdivision, she thought, complete with an HOA, a bridge club, and ladies martini night one Saturday a month. The American dream that should have been a few more generations beyond reach. Education is a great equalizer. The woman knew how lucky she was. Not all of her kin were as fortunate, save one, but some would say her fate was likely far worse. Daddy dead, Mama followed a few years later after a bout with the bottle, but not before arrangements were made for her two remaining children. Yes – food, clothing, shelter, but not much affection aside from unwanted attentions that eventually led to her violent departure - but that fit her feeling of displacement. An odd companion that morphed into comfort and safety in her psyche became her driving force in carving out a life.

Now she must decide. She wishes Tommy were here. She could talk to him. The bonds of childhood, even a lousy one, had forged her closest human connection, severed by a roadside bomb in a far away desert. She tried to remind herself that she wasn't exactly alone now. Sam is a good man with an easy temper, and he might even understand. But, this pursuit could drive a wedge between them greater than any inner barrier long erected around her heart and mind. Their relationship is not quite new, but in her experience all is ephemeral and so she guards even in the most preciously intimate exchanges.

Before reason prevails, she tears open the envelop bearing a name known only to a few living souls, connected to the flash of a face in her mind, distant voices in the depths of her memory, lost forever, or so she thought. Margaret Sparrow eyes the blackbirds darting around the birdfeeder beyond her stone retaining wall with some annoyance. She prefers the chickadees, scrappy and full of spunk for such small birds. _Damned birds_, she thinks, wryly. A crow call brings another flash of memory to her mind, of silver taking flight on dull coal wings mottled with white. Red tresses whisper over her face as a larger hand takes hers. Sadder times. Before, her earliest happy memory the star of the sand dollar placed into her tiny hands by the bearer of the long red tresses, salty spray of sea foam and laughter. Her mind is set. Maggie brushes a strand of amber curls behind her ear and unfolds the letter addressed to Grace Starling.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Family Ties

A world away, the monster approaches his companion. She has spent the greater part of the day in solitude. His intuition tells him that she is ready for him to come to her, and it is rarely wrong in these matters. He spends a great deal of time charting her moods and navigating the complex sea of her emotions. In odysseys of the human mind, he is a seasoned explorer with the capacity for merciless plunder or artful restoration of even the most deeply wounded consciousness. His companion has experienced both, and survived. They have both endured tempests that have cracked the hulls of their respective souls alone, and in steering hers to calm waters, he has found a peaceful harbor of his own. It was within his power to avert the winds that threaten her calm, but he would never deceive her. A lie of omission was no less a lie, and he would not take away her choice, even at the risk opening old wounds.

He opens the door, carefully breaching the threshold of her sanctuary in their shared home. She faces away from him, standing before a door opening to their large terrace. The generous study adjacent to their bedroom became her private domain shortly after they arrived. Dr. Lecter was pleased that she chose a space of her own. After such a long time alone, both he and his companion still require some moments of solitude in their shared life, and he acknowledged (albeit never aloud) that his intensity was probably overwhelming at times, even for her. He waits for a reaction, gauging her posture and respiration, as well as her scent. Tension wracks her supple form, the air heavy with her anger. _The other thing I wonder about is, how do you manage your rage?_ He pauses, deliberately allowing his footfalls to indicate his presence, giving her space to compose herself. She need not hide from him, yet he understands how she abhors any perceived weakness and respects her privacy as a matter of mutual courtesy.

"Good morning, Clarice." He offers calmly, as he places a tray on the polished desktop of her study. "I thought you might enjoy a cup of tea."

She turns slowly to face him, some of the tension dissipating from her stance. Her face is calm, betrayed only by her red and swollen eyes. She murmurs a thank you, but does not meet his gaze. He offers her the cup, and she closes her tired eyes and inhales the pleasant aroma. After a sip, lifts her gaze to his.

"Sorry I'm such a mess."

"You don't need to apologize, Clarice. Your feelings are a valid and natural response to the situation you are experiencing. You must process these feelings, unpleasant as they are, in order to address the situation."

"Thanks Doc," she replies with a bit of bite, "but I've processed just about enough 'unpleasant' feelings to last a lifetime."

"There's no need to become defensive, Clarice." He sighs, "I only wish to help."

"Yeah, your favorite basket case is a wreak again. Hiding any needles?"

"No, Clarice. We have moved beyond the need for . . . catalysts to facilitate our discussions. You are free to express your thoughts or to withhold them."

She laughs out loud, breaking some of the tension. "Oh really? Don't pretend that you can't or won't find a way to wheedle my 'thoughts' out of me. It's only your favorite pastime."

"Well . . ." he muses, "One must indulge in hobbies that pique one's interests and accentuate one's skills. Aside from my personal fascination with all things Clarice Starling, however, I'm most concerned for your well-being, and for our continued safety."

"Yes," she acquiesces, "I know that Hannibal. I'm not angry with you, I just thought that I was finished with the past, you know." Her eyes soften as some of her tension dissipates.

"I understand." He speaks in a gentle tone, now, testing the shallows before venturing into deeper waters. "We've spoken at length of your father's death, your time in the orphanage, the lambs, the years of systematic abuse at the hands of the F. B. I., and together we have constructed a proper and fitting space in the gallery of your mind to house those memories. In doing so, we have diminished their negative influence, their _power_ over your consciousness. You are at peace with them and with yourself."

"Yes, and after all of that what I really want is to hold onto that peace, to my new life, to you." Fresh anger wells up, wrinkling her brow in consternation "I mean, why the hell is she looking for me now? All these years, and no word, no effort to find me! None of them even_ tried_! What does she want, do you think? A trip down memory lane, a kidney, a reward for capturing a rogue FBI agent and the world's most infamous wanted man? I mean, she could be working with the fucking bureau for all we know!" She paces, voice quavering as she speaks, her fingers curl tightly into her palm.

"While I appreciate share your concern for our continued safety, please allow me to shoulder that particular burden for the moment." She opened her mouth to object, but he held up an open palm to silence her. "_Clarice_, please, set it aside for now."

A sigh, deep breaths to quell some of the anger, or perhaps at the resignation that another 'discussion' will no doubt ensue. She acquiesces, lowering herself to the small, comfortable sofa that she insisted on placing in her private sanctuary. While she appreciates the doctor's exquisite tastes, as well as the antiques that grace the home they share, she was profoundly grateful and touched when he insisted that she take free reign over the contents of her space. She motioned for him to join her, and he seated himself gracefully beside her, making no move to breech her personal space. She suspects that this is not solely for her benefit. For all of his poise and insight, that he remains guarded even in their interactions is an endearment rather than a nuisance. _Only human. Extraordinary, brilliant, beautiful and terrifying no doubt, but still very human_.

She reaches for him, brushes his hand with her fingertips, gently tracing patterns over his knuckles before placing her hand in his. "Alright Hannibal, I suppose you want to talk about my other 'concerns' now."

Piercing gaze, barely concealed delight. _Another uncharted shore in the sea of your mind, little Starling? Oh if you had any idea how much I desire to explore you, every facet of you . . . or perhaps you know all too well._ "Very well Clarice," he states, facing her with rapt attention, "we have not yet spoken of your siblings at any great length. You have two younger brothers and an even younger sister, as I recall?"

_You know very well, and you know that I KNOW how well you recall._ "Yes, Tommy is two years younger, Jeremy four, and Grace was the baby, 5 years younger than me. I don't think she was intended . . . but we all loved her, of course." A quirked brow from the doctor, "I mean to say, _I _loved her, and the rest of them."

"Of course, Clarice. It has always been clear that your bond with your family was quite strong. It is the reason that their loss was so very devastating, and it is why you were so determined to honor the memory of your father by molding yourself in his image. By emulating his vocation, his values, his sense of justice, you could maintain a connection to him. You found strength in your mother's fortitude during her struggles after your father died. Yet, never have you expressed a deep yearning for your siblings. Why is that, do you think?"

"Daddy didn't choose to leave me, he was killed. Mama only sent me away because she couldn't care for all of us. I know she died not long after I left the ranch. Jeremy died, too, from leukemia I think. I don't know what happened to Tom and Grace. There was a sealed juvenile record for her, but the trail goes cold after that. _They_ never looked for me." A tiny quaver in her voice at the end, then silence.

"Thus, you felt abandoned by your siblings. You still harbor a great deal of anger and resentment for that, and a by-product of these feelings is mistrust, not only of your sister's motives for initiating contact, but of your own conflicted feelings regarding your remaining family."

"So you asked for my permission me to respond to her message so that I could work through the rest of my family angst?"

"That is a good part of my rationale, yes. You must know, by now, that I care deeply for your happiness and well-being."

"Yes, Hannibal, I know that." She leans in and brushes his lips with a soft kiss in a rare display of tenderness. They are passionate companions and lovers, generous but ever cautious, even with one another. He revels in her closeness. "But I also wonder if this has anything to do with you?"

He pulls away, but keeps her hand enveloped in his, "Please elaborate, Clarice."

"Surely the odd confluence of events hasn't escaped you, Hannibal." She smiles now, reveling in the role-reversal. He responds with a small smile, too, at his warrior's insight, intuiting where her keen logic has led her. "You lose your family, your beloved sister, I lose my family and my sister, and now the opportunity to reconnect appears? Do you think if you can reunite me with Grace, it will be just a little like getting back some part of Mischa?"

Hannibal Lecter gazes deeply into the eyes of his companion, his own holding an expression that is difficult to define. Perhaps a bit of pride mingled with a wariness of her acumen. "She has likely received the instructions that I provided in order to accept our invitation. How shall I answer, Clarice? The choice is naturally yours."

"Let her come, then. If it's a trap, we'll know as soon as she arrives. If not, we'll no doubt discover her motives once we meet her. Not here, though, let her come to the Caribbean. I don't want to risk this house, _our home_. Thanks, Hannibal, for taking this risk for me."

She sighs, her earlier tension washed away by his words, his gift, his very presence. The victory of her own insight replaces the tension she previously experienced with another, more primal tension. In spite of their time together, he remains a great enigma to her, and any glimpse into his soul is precious, each being hard won.

Lowering herself to the floor, she kneels before his seated form and, placing both hands on his legs and begins to delicately stroke them, deliberately slow, from knee to mid-thigh and back, her head low to plant a delicate kiss on each knee as her hair casts a golden glow from the late afternoon sun.

_Here, little Starling?_ Their intimate encounters are numerous, frequent, and certainly not restricted to their bedchamber. He has shared this particular private space of hers often, enjoying intimate cerebral exchanges, but never in all their years have they shared carnal pleasures in her domain. Once more, she surprises him. He barely suppresses a shiver of delight.

She continues her delicate caresses, inching a bit higher with each silken movement enough to tease, but not to satisfy. She raises her head to search his eyes for reaction, her own eyes revealing stirrings of hunger. He arches an eyebrow, but his countenance remains as even as his respiration. _Playing hard to get, huh? Let's up the ante, then. _

She stands then, and with a slow and sensuous motion hitches her skirt over toned thighs and sits astride her stony companion, knees on either side of him on the couch, lifting to press her body tantalizingly close to his, the contact betraying his excitement at the intersection between their thighs, much to her delight. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, allowing her scent, permeating this space and emanating from her skin and hair, so close now, to fill him, audibly shuddering upon exhalation. Eyes open, his mind records her image as she strokes his face, his neck, his chest, catching his hardened nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt with her delicate finger tips, her lips slightly parted, brow creased slightly in rapt concentration as she touches him, golden skin and hair shimmering. _So very light, her touch, too light_. Sensing his frustration, she unbuttons his shirt and delights in the feel of his bare skin, touch a bit firmer now, but still not enough. She rotated her hips, undulating to push her pelvis harder against his growing erection, causing a low moan to escape her throat, and he watches as the crease in her brow deepens, her arousal growing. _Glorious, magnificent, my goddess, all for me._

The slow torture began to take its toll on the doctor as well, causing his breath to hitch with each caress. He suddenly remembers his own hands, stroking her back and the delicate skin at the base of her spine. She is particularly sensitive there, and he savors the shivers his touch elicits. The doctor delights in her reaction to his touch, remembering with fondness his discovery of her wonderfully expressive physical and vocal reactions to his attentions. He never tires of pleasuring her, savoring her. He moves to caress her breasts, but she catches his hands in hers, her eyes conveying her desire to remain in control of the game for now. He smiles and acquiesces. _I am at your mercy, Clarice._

She moves from her lover's lap now, running her fingers down his chest, his abdomen, ever so slowly, finally tracing the outline of his semi-erect penis through the fabric of his trousers. A groan escapes his throat, as she continues to tease. He has schooled her well in the art of patience, perhaps to his consternation.

He murmurs her name, as she moves to release him. She unfastens and unzips, but leaves him confined to a thin layer of silk as she continues her maddeningly slow ministrations, determined to chip away at his composure. When she notices the beads of perspiration appear on his brow, his chest, only then does she grant him permission to lift himself from the sofa so that she can free him fully from the confines of clothing, at least as far as mid-calf. His lover lifts herself to whisper feather light kisses over his bared chest, his torso, his naval, and then moves back to stroke his thighs alternately with her fingernails and tongue.

His breathing is shallow and uneven, an ache centering within his engorged flesh causes his body to quiver. She firmly grasps his shaft, one hand rhythmically stroking him as the other gently caresses his scrotum, index finger pressing firmly on his hypersensitive perineum in a matching rhythm and he gasps. He is breaking, his pelvis thrusts to increase the pressure. Clarice pauses briefly to marvel at the rare spectacle her lover presents, writhing in agony and ecstasy, beautifully and blissfully lost in the sensations she creates. His maroon orbs meet her eyes, and she entreats huskily "May I taste you?" Having long lost the capacity for speech, he nods, still shaking. Gazes still locked, she used her hands to slide his foreskin down, running her tongue over his velvet head before taking him into her mouth. "Aaaah!" he cries, and he is lost to the sensation. _Her tongue, her mouth, the heat . . . _She continues to stroke him with her tongue, barely quickening the rhythm for several strokes until he feels his hands over hers, hears her name on his lips, and she stills.

She rises and removes her dress and panties, her own desire now burning. When she mounts him again, she makes no move to deny is hungry hands and mouth as he devours her neck, her breasts, releasing a series of high-pitched cries as his touch sears her aching nipples, mewling as his penis presses against her clitoris. She guides his penis with her hand, then lowers herself with a cry of ecstasy as he enters her heat, her lips crushing into his, his tongue penetrating her hungry mouth her as he thrusts to penetrate her below. Both are lost, falling, and she cries out for him, bringing his hands back to her breasts. Head back, enraptured in the sensation of his hands and mouth on her nipples, his penis deep insider her, she rocks to maximize the friction, harder and harder, her apex nearing "Hannibal!" she cries as her orgasm overtakes her, flesh convulsing as she loses herself in this rapture.

He is close, but finds a sliver of control as she rides out her release, breathless in her beauty. As her breathing slows and her eyes open, she watches with fascination as he reaches his own climax, his name on her lips as he tenses, sharp thrusts as he empties into her and his eyes convey a glimpse into his wisdom, his passion, his darkness, his soul, all that he is.

He cradles her as she rests in his lap, the shadows long as afternoon gives way to evening. He holds his treasure, his gift, as he ponders the arrival of her sister and devises his plan to lay bare her motivations. This woman has the capacity to do great good or harm to Clarice, and he will discover her intentions before she has any part of Clarice's life. Red pinpoints of light swirl as he muses, falling into recesses far darker than the night that envelops them now.


	3. Chapter 3

_My apologies to Jewel, for inadvertently deleting her reviews after trying to upload corrections to chapters one and two. I am not yet one with the technology . . . Please forgive! I hope anyone who reads will enjoy._

_As for Dr. Lecter's dissection of Grace and her profession . . . you write what you know, and I once imagined a scenario in which Dr. Lecter might level _me!_ He isn't fond of Ph.D.'s, after all._

Chapter 3 – Arrivals

Maggie stretches her legs, a treat as she enjoys first class for the very first time. No stranger to air travel, she is accustomed to cramped economy seats and being packed in with the rest of the "sardines." She smiles sadly at her remembrance of a Sam-ism. He doesn't approve of this, despite her assurances that she will be careful and won't take any unnecessary chances. He balked at that. Well, visiting a long lost sister who is the likely consort of a lunatic serial killer is pretty reckless, in spite of what her research and intuition tell her. She had called one last time from the airport with the promise that she would call again upon clearing customs in Aruba. She knows they don't live there, and feels safer knowing that they are taking precautions to protect their freedom just as she wishes to be cautious to preserve her life. Besides, neutral territory is good, and she had a few aces in the hole in case of trouble.

Sam, her wonderfully uncomplicated lover, insisted on accompanying her at first, though only a single ticket was provided by the travel agency that arranged her trip through the third party she assumes to be meeting. She did grant him leave to travel to Aruba at the first sign of trouble, but only after a rigorous bout of sexual explorations that almost made her late for check-in. Sex was Sam was frequent, adventurous, and always rewarding for Maggie, and she wouldn't question her future with him save two things; her own baggage and the fact that he wants kids. She's overcome a huge hurdle by telling him about her past, including the reason she lost her given name long ago, but she still can't quite trust enough to accept that he's forever. But . . . she considers the fact that she misses right at this moment a big, though disconcerting, breakthrough.

After landing in Oranjestad, collecting her bags, and clearing customs, she enjoys the cab ride to her hotel with the warm breeze blowing through her hair. February is cold, even in the southeastern U.S., and it is lovely to be near warmth and water. It is the week of Carnevale in the Antilles, and the streets are lined with colorful carts for the vendors and plastic chairs sit under awnings in anticipation of the parade. These thoughts keep some of the knots from tightening in her stomach, as the reality of her impending encounter begins to grip her. No instructions beyond her lodgings were provided her, and she wonders how she'll find them. _They'll find me_. Pushing that thought aside, she pays her fare with a generous tip and enters the luxury hotel. _At least they are leading me to them in style_, she thinks. After familiarizing herself with the luxury suite, she really begins to wish for Sam. She freshens quickly, and grabs her back, checking for at least the 100th time that the small candy box and its contents are still there.

She sits in a quiet corner of the lounge adjacent to the lobby, where she can be seen, but where a discreet conversation with anyone wishing to join her is possible, and orders a cup of coffee after deciding alcohol in the early afternoon and in her current circumstances would not be prudent. Passing the time listening to the strange mix of Spanish, Dutch, and creoles that fall from the lips of passers-by, she barely notices the hour and a half that passes. By her third cup of coffee and hour two, she begins to wonder how people stay sane during stakeouts. _Could explain a lot._ Tired and bored, she pays her tab, grabs her bag, and moves out of the bar to pace the lobby.

Finally fed up, she decides that her suite's master bath is much more inviting than the ground floor, and moves toward the elevators only to be greeted by warning cones and an "Out of Order" sign. Grumbling loudly, she flounces toward the stairwell. A voice at her ear, just before she reaches the door, how didn't she hear the bearer? Silken utterance "Please forgive this small breech of etiquette," as she feels the cloth over her nose and mouth and her body stumbling through the open door before blackness overtakes her.

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Her head lolled from her right shoulder to her chest, and then back up. A sharp pain in her temples and waves of nausea greeted her upon returning to consciousness, along with the realization that her legs and arms were bound tightly to the chair in which she was sitting. Coughing relieved some of the residual stench of chloroform, but did little to alleviate the dull ache in her head. Nor did it stop the pounding of her heart as her mind caught up with her rather precarious situation. _Think, girl, think! Get it together – he's got you now and you'd better keep your wits if you want to live! He probably, no definitely smells your fear, but no malice (assuming malice presents a specific aroma – who the hell knows, other than this demon?!?); speak earnestly, keep him talking, pique his interest and convince him that you only want to see Clarice and you might live a bit longer . . ._

"Good afternoon," came the calm voice from the lobby, "Might I suggest you open your eyes slowly, and avoid thrashing about? It will only add to your discomfort. I'll keep the lights low. The residual effects of sedation should pass soon, sooner should you remain calm. When you are quite ready, I have some questions. I am certain that, given your current situation, you will be willing to indulge me, hmm? "

She opened her eyes, surmising that she was in her own hotel suite. _He must have dragged me back up by the stairs, then. Found my key card, knew my room, of course, must have been watching for some time. Is he alone, or is Clarice nearby? Best to proceed with caution_ . . . The voice came from her left. She allowed her eyelids to flutter, blinked a few times. Slowly, the blur in her vision faded and she dared to turn her head in the direction of the gentleman seated to her left. He was difficult to see in the dim light. _Good, he doesn't want me to see him; maybe my death is not a foregone conclusion. Deep breath, two, three, Again, two, three . . . _She returns her gaze ahead of her, the man in the shadows registered only in her peripheral vision.

"Yes, I will answer your questions, sir. Will you let me tell you why I am here, first?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . Let's not get ahead of ourselves. First, introductions are in order, I think."

"Yes, Doctor Lecter, I presume."

"And you are the former Grace Starling, now Ms. Margaret Sparrow."

"It's Doctor Sparrow, sir," she interrupted quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Dr. Sparrow. I hold a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology. If you wish to proceed on professional terms, Dr. Lecter, then I think it only courteous that you address me by my title."

"Ah, I see. Are you an assistant professor, then, in some hallowed institution devoted to enlightening generation 'why bother' on Darwin, the Krebs cycle, and the rather dull story of Mendel's peas?"

"No, I rarely teach. I do biomedical research. And while Mendel is certainly relevant, molecular genetics has advanced - "

A chuckle emanates from the darkness "Biomedical research, without a medical degree? Ah, research is indeed the preferred fall back path for those lacking the MCAT scores to enter medicine. Tell me, _doctor_ Sparrow, what thrilling discoveries have you made recently? Could I find your name buried in the middle of some mundane journal in the archives of the National Institutes of Health? A miniscule advancement in one little molecular pathway or another, while the greater advances and leaps remain elusive? You insist on your title upon our first meeting, possibly expecting that it will garner respect, one academic to another, but it stings in the corridors of the ivory tower that you must remind physicians that you, too, hold an advanced degree. Do they look on you with disdain, dressed in your laboratory garb, white coat stained from days spent hunched over a dusty bench in the basement of the _old_ hospital wing? I doubt your name is monogrammed on the breast. No, you'll settle for your worn identification badge. Are you mistaken for a nursing student looking for the _laundry_ facility? Or worse, perhaps they view you as one of the common folk wandering the halls looking for the visitor's lounge or snack machine. Alas, yet not a _real_ doctor after all of those student loans."

"Well, the image has come a long way after CSI . . ."

"Wit in the face of the stark glare of scrutiny . . . Most interesting . . . a defense you use quite often, I imagine. Popular culture may have elevated the image, but you still don't feel the respect you desperately crave, do you? Your accent, while soft, betrays your origin, and living in Tennessee surely hasn't been helpful for improving your diction. Roots remain firmly anchored, despite the growth of the tallest tendrils and branches. Not a haven for intellectual nourishment, as I can attest from personal experience. Memphis was tedious, indeed, but I digress. Is it bothersome to constantly defend your education, your achievements, your value, _doctor_ Sparrow? You vacillate between your hunger for recognition and your folksy notions of 'putting on your pants one leg at a time, like everyone else," don't you? Desperate for validation, yet too full of pride to ever ask for acknowledgement, waiting to be seen? It stings, doesn't it? Are you fighting to keep your head held high, to douse the anger burning inside? You would rather _die_, I suppose," now a hearty laugh and sparks from the heavily lidded maroon orbs in the half-light, "than give me or anyone the satisfaction of breaking that exterior."

_A breath, an answer, stand your ground_ . . . "Yes, I have my defenses, and I'm sure you have yours, but I won't break down in tears like that prick Doemling. If I may say so, you do live up to your reputation, Dr. Lecter. I doubt my last tenure evaluation could have done better than that, though without the personal touches. I would have thought after 10 years of freedom, you would no longer need to wheedle and cajole to get your jollies." _Probably shouldn't have said that, keep your eyes on the prize._ "As far as pride, I believe it is a family trait. That's what I would like to discuss, sir."

"Back to genetics, Margaret Sparrow, Ph.D.?"

Another deep breath, looking left, "I came alone and I haven't alerted the authorities."

"Surely someone knows that you are here."

"Yes, and if I fail to check in soon, my contact has instructions to turn over all research materials on you and Clarice, as well as my trail to you, to the proper authorities. I knew you wouldn't trust me at face value, just as I don't trust you. But, if you are truly capable of smelling a lie, then you will know that I am being honest when I tell you that all I want is to see my sister, to know something of her, and to give her some things that were meant for her long ago." _Not much of an ace, come to think of it, since he's been on the run long enough to be long gone before my dead carcass is discovered._

Long silence. "You are going to sleep now, a placid, restful sleep. When you awaken, you'll find a warm bath waiting, followed by a hot meal courtesy of room service. Enjoy your evening and tomorrow afternoon. May I recommend the view that the California Lighthouse affords?"

"But, what about Clarice?"

"At precisely 5:30 P.M. you will exit the hotel and look for a blue Taurus parked at the curb."

"That will take me to Clarice?"

Quick as a cat, he's behind her, tiny sting of the finest needle entering her arm. "Don't worry," he purrs, "this won't have the same unpleasant side effects."


	4. Chapter 4

**Some Notes**: Being new to fanfic and not down with the lingo, I looked up the term "Mary Sue" when it came up on a review and was (1) relieved that it didn't mean what I thought it meant at first and, (2) a little worried that my story might be turning into a Mary Sue.

So I took a Wiki quiz and another online quiz (sorry guys, won't let me display the links but I'll gladly forward them to anyone who would like – or just Google "Mary Sue" and "Fanfiction") based on current and future chapters. I was highly entertained by the list of questions, and recommend the links to anyone who needs a good laugh. Tangent: I guessed what a "lemon" is by context, and I do enjoy the nice lemons that I read on this site. Oh the wonderful things you can learn online!

**Conclusion**: Borderline, definite Sue potential – I intend for Grace to be a decent character, but not the main focus since she isn't a part of the canon. She shares my profession because that's what I know, and I know TN versus WV, but many parts are (sadly) quite culturally similar. Since Dr. Lecter "visited" TN, albeit briefly, he has the capacity to comment on the region as per canon, and I thought he probably would find it entertaining to see how another Starling woman would react to a dose of his blunt analysis. I do so enjoy Dr. Lecter toying with people. Aside from that, my intention is to use her as a tool to answer some questions about Clarice's past and work through them with the doctor's help (next chapters), as I love the dynamic between these two characters. I tried to give some back-story, but I'm finding that's hard to do without getting ridiculous. The other reason I started this story is that I just wasn't able to come up with a new scenario for the Lecter Fic universe that hasn't been written before, and better (see Jewel, Silver, Nyx Fixx, etc.) by someone else. Maybe, with practice, something else will come to mind later. And . . . I felt kind of bad writing reviews for other people without actually contributing something to the site.

However, in the interest of not only entertaining myself but also improving, please feel free to call out any lapses into Sue-dom so that I can correct them in this fic or any future efforts. Anyway, I am still having fun writing and even more fun with the communication features of the site, so here goes . . .

Chapter 5 – Grace Under Fire

She awoke with such a start that she rolled violently and was rewarded with a face full of Berber. Disoriented, Maggie lifted her head and found herself on the floor of her luxury suite, having fallen off the bed. _Fuck Fuck FUCK! How in the HELL could I be so fucking stupid??!!??_ Her pulse accelerated at the memory of her encounter with monster, reality smacking her in the face like ball peen hammer. _What the FUCK happened? What in the hell was I thinking coming here to meet a fucking SERIAL killer? Jesus H. Christ why did I talk back to a fucking serial killer? Wait, why the fuck am I still alive?_

Pulse racing, she checks her appendages and other vital portions of her anatomy before jumping to her feet and grabbing one of the decorative vases from the nearby nightstand and spinning around the room looking for the red-eyed boogeyman who she was reasonably certain had tormented and drugged her. Was it a dream? Still high on adrenaline, she searched her room and then raced to the toilet to evacuate the contents of her stomach. Shock still coursing through her body, she didn't register the subtle aromas emanating from the adjacent bath. After regurgitating a few more times, she noted the flicker of candles and her stomach clenched again. In a half-lucid moment, she decided to forego the vase and cautiously stepped toward the door.

Through a thin haze of steam, she saw that her bath had been drawn, candles adorning the vanity. On the chair to which she had been tethered shortly before lay a thick navy blue bathrobe, slippers neatly resting below. She noticed a scrap of white barely concealed between the folds of the robe, and moved to pick it up. Elegant script on the folded paper bearing her name, she started to unfold the note when the shrill notes of the hotel phone jolted her. She ran to the nightstand and picked up the receiver.

"Hello," breathlessly.

"Good evening Ms. Sparrow. I am calling to confirm your room service order." A few seconds of silence, "Ms. Sparrow?"

"Um, sorry, what?"

"We received a request for room service for 6:30? Is this still acceptable?"

"Um, O.K., sure, I guess, uh, do you know who placed the order?"

"I assumed it was placed by you Ms. Sparrow. Was the order placed in error?"

"Um, I don't know, what's in the order?"

"Let me see," the pleasant voice paused, "we have an order for West Indian rock lobster in a cognac cream sauce, fresh vegetables and our excellent local Creole rice, and an order of Swiss chocolate truffle mousse. Is this correct?"

"Sure, fine, uh, what time is it?"

"It is 5:30. Are you all right, Ms.? I apologize if I disturbed your rest."

"No, no, no problem at all. Um, thank you, that would be lovely." Click.

Moving on autopilot, Maggie unfolded the note.

_Dear Margaret,_

_I trust you enjoyed your nap. Please excuse my unconventional greeting, but our circumstances necessitate caution. Firstly, let me assure you that I did not physically harm you in any lasting way. As I mentioned, the side effects of your last sleep aid will lack the unpleasant side effects of the first. After administering said aid, I placed you on the bed and remained in your room only long enough to draw a hot bath (if my dosing estimations are correct, the temperature should be optimal upon your awakening and recovery) and to make arrangements for a proper meal. I do hope that you will enjoy this hospitality, secure in the knowledge that you are safe and that I am far from the premises as you read this note._

_Being indisposed as you were at the time, I think it wise to reiterate my suggestion and insist that you rest for the remainder of the evening to recover from your journey. Please take the opportunity to enjoy the local sites tomorrow morning and afternoon, as the island is quite lively at the moment. This should provide a distraction from the distress you are no doubt experiencing as you prepare for the impending reunion. I surmised from your bravado during our repartee this afternoon that you are determined to follow through. Is this accurate, Dr. Sparrow? You are quite naïve in testing me, but I will grant you a bit of latitude for the sake of our mutual interest. _

_Perhaps you require an assurance of your continued safety, realizing by now exactly with whom you are dealing? Very well. I give you my word that you will remain unharmed so long as you behave. Should you decide to run along back home, my assurance remains. At any rate, the ball, as they say, is in your court. Your chariot will await at 5:30 P.M. sharp tomorrow. In the meantime, do enjoy the bath and dinner. _

_Regards, _

_Your Host_

For lack of a better plan, Maggie did try the bath and ate dinner a half an hour later, before quickly calling Sam to assure him that she was fine and was expecting contact tomorrow. Sleep was surprisingly easy, but she was up with the dawn and off to make some preparations of her own.

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She called the airline a dozen times to book a flight out of Aruba before changing her mind, only to dial again. She realized she was way out of her league. He probably only let her live for Clarice (or so he could bring her to a better venue for slaughter). _How badly do I want this?_

The Ford Taurus was sitting behind a row of taxis and occupied by a very jolly young Aruban, his dark eyes sparkling as she approached, eyes on long legs and the generous plunge of her neckline. He quickly exited the vehicle and held open the rear driver's side door. "Good evening, _bunita maestra_," he said with a broad smile, "make yourself comfortable. Your mask is in the back, put it on and no peeking!"

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, _bo esposo_ said you would make a fuss. He wants to spoil you on your birthday, so no peeking, OK? You'll like where I take you!"

"I'm sure," she says, wryly. _Surprise party for the wife as cover for maintaining sanctity of lair. He's clever, nucking-futs, but clever._

Blindfold intact, she rides for what she thinks is an hour before the car stops. Her chauffeur hands her out of the car and removed her blindfold. She faced iron gates embedded in a white stone high wall, surrounding what looked like pretty large grounds for such a tiny island. Mr. Jolly was positively beaming as he buzzed in and waved to the security camera. He assured the voice on the other end that Maggie had been a great sport and that she had no idea where they were but was surely impressed.

He made an exaggerated bow before stepping back into his car and departing. She is alone now, watching the gates swing open. She waits for a few minutes, watching the camera pan toward her. Fighting the urge to run and steeling her gaze, obstinacy being the quintessential Starling trait, she breaches the threshold and walks toward the stately home beyond.

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Clarice Starling watches the camera, taking a good look at the woman approaching. She's tall, with lighter hair, wavy like mom's hair. Clarice is pretty surprised that the doctor's little reconnaissance mission didn't send her sister packing. _Brave, stupid, or maybe both_. Hannibal did agree to remain out of site, though no doubt within earshot, tonight, lest he scare the hell out of their guest before Clarice could satisfy her own curiosity. She moves to the foyer and opens the door.

Blue eyes meet, and both women regard one another before Maggie extends her hand, "Hello Clarice," she states simply, "thank you for agreeing to see me."

Clarice grasps her hand and responds, "Hello, Margaret, please come in." She moves aside and releases the hand, "I have so many questions, but the first thing I really want to know is why you changed your name."

"Call me Maggie, please. Long story, but I'll be happy to tell it," Maggie hesitates two steps in, eyes darting.

"Relax. He's around, but I asked him not to disturb us."

"Will he listen?"

"Maybe," she says with a small smile.

"I have a few questions, too, but I'm not sure I should ask some of them."

"That might be for the best, at least right now. Come sit and let me get you something to drink." Clarice offers, leading her through the home to a comfortable sunroom.

"Oh, that reminds me, I brought something for you," Maggie pulls a bottle of wine from her bag. "I hope you like it, I don't know much about wine, but the guy at the store said it was nice'."

Clarice laughs, "Southern manners 101: Never come a callin' empty-handed. No pinto beans and cornbread?"

Maggie laughs, too, "Well I didn't have time to make tater salad, so this will have to do."

"O.K., thanks. Let me go open this and get some glasses. Much oblige," she winks.

Maggie sits and takes in the surroundings. Beautiful furniture, understated, tasteful. _Clarice looks O.K. Is she O.K.? Can you be O.K. and live with a man like Hannibal Lecter?_ She is interrupted from her nervous reverie by an offered glass, the bearer still wearing a soft smile. "I know what you're thinking. This is all pretty weird, huh?" she offers.

"Weird I'm sitting here with my big sis, weird that I showed up in spite of being drugged and interrogated by your, uh, what is he to you anyway?"

"Everything. But I guess you can call him my companion."

"O.K., then weird that I showed up in spite of being drugged, _tied up_, and interrogated by your companion, or weird that my sister ran off with said companion and still agreed to meet me?"

"Take your pick," with a hint of impatience.

"I'll start with weird that I'm sitting here with my big sis, then. You look great," _O.K. that was lame_. "I mean, it looks like you're healthy and doing pretty well."

"Yes, we do quite well. My turn. Why did you change your name?"

"Tom and I had it changed after we sorted out some trouble I had with the law. I helped my boyfriend steal a car and ran off when I turned sixteen. The folks we got dumped on after Mama died didn't have a lot of time for us, and I went wild for a few years. Anyway, we took the car and started driving out of town, but we hit this guy and then got busted. I wasn't driving, but I boosted the car so I was arrested, too. Spent about 6 months in juvenile before Tommy came back, since I couldn't go back where I was. He was in the army and couldn't take leave for a while. The judge felt sorry for me, and he liked Tommy, so he released me into his custody since he was 18 and had a job. We all thought it would be a good idea to make a fresh start for me, so we changed my name. I always liked Margaret Mitchell, and Tommy picked Sparrow as a joke. He changed, too."

"That's why I couldn't find you, two, huh?"

"Well, it's not as good a story as saving a blind horse, but there you have it. O.K., my turn, now. You actually tried to find us?"

"Yes,_ I_ tried. What about you? Why now? You look like you're doing pretty well, yourself, so what do you want?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"All these years, and you show up now. What about after I had to go? What about after mom died? Or later? I mean, I wasn't exactly hard to find after Gumb?" She's up now, pacing. She turns and lashes accusingly, "Where were you? You didn't write or call then, but you're hot on the trail now, aren't you? Did you enjoy the flight and luxury suite? Better than the shit hole we used to help mom clean up –"

"What the hell are you saying? You think I came here for a _vacation_?" Maggie asked, incredulous at the accusation.

"You've done your homework, if you managed to make your way to us. You know Hannibal's taste. It takes a lot of cash to bankroll those things. Maybe you figure there's something in it for you?"

"You think I want your fucking money?" Angrier, now. "Hey, I got my shit together after Tommy moved me to the base where he could have his buddies look after me. I put myself through school and got a decent job. I don't _need_ your money!"

"So why are you here, _Gracie_?" venomous eyes blazing.

She's up in an instant, ripping the battered yellow Whitman's box from her bag. "I came to give you this!" Tossing the box at Clarice. "And right now I think the better question is why the fuck am I _STILL_ here." She pushes past, running for the door, a pair of keen red eyes watching as she runs.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - _Hannibal ante portas_

Maggie stormed through the front door and shut it with a hearty slam, righteous indignation surging as and she began jogging down the walkway. _Fuck, I should have called a cab! FUCK I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE I AM!_ Sheer stubbornness kept her feet moving as she strode toward the front gate. _Closed! Of course, it's closed! They're motherfucking fugitives!_

She quickly moved along the adjacent garden paths. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she could find an interruption in the wall somewhere on the grounds, with only a few trees or shrubs as barriers. She was never a girl to let a few trees get in the way. She was also not the sort of woman to allow slights to her pride push her to fury, but Clarice had cut her to the core. Pent up emotions threatened to overtake her, so she continued to run through the garden, faster and faster until she felt knives plunging into her lungs with each breath, her legs aching, and beads of sweat coalescing to form a stream between her breasts. She tripped over a loose paving stone and collapsed, crushing her right arm and knee under her weight. Exhaustion, anger, and pain took over and she sobbed uncontrollably.

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Dr. Lecter watched Clarice as she examined worn slivers of lined paper, some creased and visibly aged. He followed the course of conversation between the two Starling women, of course, still ever watchful for signs of malice from this interloper. Now, he was curious as to the nature of Margaret's parting gift.

"Clarice?" he asks gently.

"They're letters, _letters_, from Mama and Tommy, and . . . and Grace." She was too shocked at the moment to cry. Tears will come later, along with catharsis. He was hopeful. She turned the pages over in her hands, quickly flipping through torn envelops and checking postmarks. "They're addressed to the ranch." She looks up at her lover, eyes wide with wonder. "But, why didn't . . . I mean, I thought . . . they didn't forget about me?" Realization struck her like a knife in the belly and wonder morphed into a sliver of hope, "They wrote to me?" then horror, "Oh Hannibal, what have I done?" She leapt to her feet, scattering the papers from her lap as she rushed for the door, stopped by strong arms encircling her as she fought to free herself and against a wail.

"Clarice, shhh," he whispers.

"But she's gone, I mean, she's going," gulp, "I didn't know, I didn't know, I thought . . ." sob, then an effort to shake it off and regain some control, "I have to go find her, stop her from going, I –"

"No, Clarice, what you need to do is to sit down and read your letters."

"But she's –"

"- likely not gotten very far. You must sit and read, Clarice, and let these voices from your past speak to you and fill your emptiness. I'll take care of your sister." He insists, still stroking her hair, infinitely pleased with this turn of events. Clarice was not abandoned. She was lost and alone for so long, her family scattered by the terrible winds of circumstance, adrift until he found her, but she had not been abandoned. She can heal. He will help.

He tilts her chin up and stares deeply into the liquid of her eyes, "I will find Margaret and . . . entertain her while you tend to your correspondence." He says with a wicked grin.

"What, Hannibal don't you _DARE_ tie her up again! Please Hannibal – "

"Shhh," he crushes her to his chest again, thrilling at the pace of her heart. _Yes, this was going to be fun after all, and quite helpful for Clarice_. "No, I promise to be a gracious host, and will persuade her to stay."

"Hannibal," a note of warning in her tone, "how?"

"Charm," he stated simply, and with a gentle kiss on her forehead, he left her to her reading to enjoy a bit of bird-watching.

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After a time, who can say how long, Maggie became aware of the shadow above her wretched form. She raised her head slightly, wincing, and her eyes fell upon a silk handkerchief proffered by an elegant hand. Too bewildered to do anything but accept, she wiped her eyes, her brow, and then slowly elevated her aching body to what she hoped would be a quasi-dignified position. She didn't dare look at him just yet, fixing her gaze determinedly at the cursed paving stone below her bleeding leg.

Throwing caution to the wind, she sighed and stated, "I was considering telling you to go straight to hell, too."

"What was your obstacle, then, Margaret? Are you frightened for the sanctity of your innards, hmmm?" The doctor asked, in a slow rasp.

_Fuck it._ "Actually, I thought the point would be moot, considering you live with my sister."

She was shocked from her reverie by the bellowing of the doctor's laughter. Maggie stood absolutely dumbstruck as she was presented with the sight of Hannibal Lecter, her first sight, with head thrown back, eyes shut, and honest-to-God laughing. Then she broke. Giggles gave way to hoarse gulping laughter and sobs intermingled, until she could no longer breathe without shaking.

"My, impertinence must be a family trait, at least for Starling females," offered the doctor, his sleek head still shaking in amusement, "not to mention juvenile displays of ill temper."

"Is that how she's managed to live this long? Entertainment?"

_Brave and foolish, too_, the doctor mused. "Ah, a ham-handed segue into the sordid topic of my past, or perhaps your future, Margaret? It simply won't do."

"I've heard the tapes, Dr. Lecter, so please do me the courtesy of updating your material. I'm not Clarice."

"No, you certainly are not. You are both, however, more alike than either of you are willing to admit. Petulance is unbecoming, as is presumption. I will grant you a certain degree of latitude, given your long journey and emotionally taxing confrontation. But, please do bear in mind that I am not noted for my tolerance of discourtesy, especially in my own home. Do not forget that you are my guest, Margaret, and extend me the respect and courtesy that is befitting your host." Maroon eyes darkened, and displayed a hint of the menace that lurked beneath. "Do not forget who I am."

Stifling a gulp, "I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter. I didn't mean to offend you."

His countenance instantly returning to its formerly placid state, "I accept your apology, and offer my own as I have failed to address your current discomfort. Shall we return to the house so that we might dress your wounds?"

Looking back down, "I don't know if I'm quite ready to go back."

"Then might I suggest a more leisurely stroll through the garden? I believe that horticulture is among your interests. Would you care to join me on a tour?" He asked, offering an outstretched palm toward the garden path ahead.

"What about Clarice?"

"My lovely companion is currently occupied with some rather important reading material," he replied, "it apparently flew into her lap rather suddenly." He offered a wink to break the tension.

"In that case, I accept your gracious offer, sir." Maggie replied, as her own tension melted a bit.

They walked for a half an hour, and then found themselves seated opposite one another on a patio. She began to feel a little more comfortable with their dialogue, amazed at the skill with which he put her at ease and pried a few select private thoughts and feelings from her possession. She was feeling a bit lighter than she had for some time. _No wonder he was the top shrink in D.C._, she thought, before his voice jolted her from her internal musings.

"Tell me, Margaret, why did you seek Clarice after all of these years?" he asked.

She hesitates, "I was curious about my sister, and I promised Tommy that I would try to find her."

"Mere curiosity?"

"Well, yeah, I guess."

"Come now, after listening to tapes of my discourses with Clarice, you must realize that I know that you are not being completely truthful." A flash of irritation, "Do try to answer honestly, as I consider lying to be a great discourtesy."

"Quid pro quo, doctor," she snaps, "what are your intentions toward my sister?"

"I recall warning you against discourtesy more than once during our brief acquaintance." Leaning forward and glaring.

"And I thought you had the courtesy to adhere to the rules of the game, doctor," she quips, "You did, after all, invent this particular game."

Lightening speed and he is above her now, his face twisted in a sinister smile, hands bracing her shoulders with wiry strength and mouth perilously close to her face. "I do not suffer insolence," he hisses, "I have _filleted_ others for lesser offenses. Do you truly desire to test me, Margaret? I am a monster, evil and ruthless by all credible accounts." voice now deadly silk, breath a heartbeat from her throat.

She digs deep, heart racing but eyes do not dare waver, nor voice falter, "_Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters._" Breathe, breathe, breathe . . . slate blue eyes can face the depths of his no longer, and fall closed to wait.

A voice more distant than before, beautiful and calm, offers, "_Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona, mi prese del costui piacer sì forte, che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona_." She sees him sitting placidly in his chair, eyes lifted to the heavens.

"Clarice was missing and presumed dead when I went in search of what had been her life. At first it was out of curiosity, as well as loyalty to Tom." She sighed, heart rate slowing with each breath, "I didn't know that she never got any of our letters until I made it to Montana, and then I was really, _really_ angry, so angry . . ." she tapered off.

"Angry with the your mother's family for the betrayal?"

"And at Clarice, for never trying to find me, and at myself, for not trying harder, and at fucking fate and circumstance for all of the wasted years, and at my parents, and . . . and . . ." tears threaten again " . . . and I carry so much anger for so many things that sometimes I think I'll burn alive."

"What is your best memory of childhood?"

"My earliest, of the ocean, laughing in the waves with and running with Clarice. She was taller and could run faster, but she always waited for me to catch up, took my hand and we would tumble into the foam. It was the only vacation we ever took, before Daddy died. We spent a week at a cheap motel near the Carolina coast, and everyday we would go to the beach. I remember the waves, trying to catch them and being sad when the last bubbles left my fingertips. I was crying one day, and Clarice brought me a sand dollar. She knew I loved anything with stars, and she gave me this strange and wonderful object patterned after a star. She dried my tears and we ran through the waves the rest of the day, me and my sister."

"Thank you, Margaret."

A pause.

"I thought that if I couldn't know her in life, I would learn _about_ her life, beyond the tabloids and rumors. I followed public records, accessed some FBI files using a few discreet connections, followed the transcripts of various investigations, and then moved to the Internet. Did you know there are more websites devoted to your sightings than Elvis or JFK put together?"

"Of course."

"Anyway, I ran across some interesting anonymous accounts of what went on at Muskrat farm in association with a supplier of, um, your memorabilia, and reprints of your letters to Clarice. I think that was when I first thought she might be alive and with you, when I read your letters. I was also able to trace the source back to a mutual friend of both you and Clarice."

"Ah yes, Barney. How is he?"

"Big, and a little thick through the middle– I think he's been eating well."

"I'm not surprised."

"He gave me a way to contact you, based on variation of the ad you suggested to Clarice – the one you used to lead him to his gratuities after your escape – and he gave me a warning and told me that he never wanted to see me again."

A smile, "Yes, I would imagine that he wishes to maintain his distance. Prudence has kept him in good health for many years."

"I didn't know what to expect, if anything. I had a hunch and some hope, but I was pretty apprehensive."

"Understandable. What was it that made you trust my invitation and decide to come this far?"

"Mostly your letters. My _God_, you write such extraordinary letters. But beyond that, I was compelled by her story. Don't misunderstand, I know she doesn't need or deserve my pity, and that isn't what I feel. I just wish I could have been there for her, after Daddy and the orphanage, after Gumb and the Drumgo business, after the bureau hung her out to dry . . . I was never alone for long – except those few months in juvie - I always had Tommy. She didn't have anyone, not then. I'm glad that she's not alone now. I don't have Tommy anymore either, but I can be there for her."

An arched eyebrow entreats her to continue.

"I'm willing to make a leap of faith based on your letters, your invitation, and the current state of Clarice's life that you wish her well. Even more than that, I see that you wish to protect her. But, and I mean this with all respect and delicacy, I – "

"I take it you are concerned that my advancing years are not conducive to Clarice's long-term care?"

"Well, that and the fact that your life as a fugitive presents a constant risk."

"I have never hidden the gravity of our situation from Clarice, nor is there any need."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, if and when the day comes, I can offer her a safe place to land." She stated simply.

Dr. Lecter appeared to deliberate, to consider her words carefully, the tip of his pink tongue appearing at the center of his upper lip before disappearing. "Come, it is late and we really must tend to your injuries. Perhaps we can reconvene this evening, after dinner and after you have spoken with Clarice, assuming it is your wish to remain as our guest?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"I have no desire to keep you prisoner, nor to take your life, Margaret Sparrow. To recycle more of my previously published 'material,' the world is more interesting with you in it. You are Clarice's sole surviving relative."

"Are you planning anything, um, unconventional this, evening with me and Clarice? I mean, like the kind of stuff you two used to talk about on the tapes? Please don't be angry -" she qualified, quickly, "I just, I just don't think I'm up for any more today."

"Of my many well-documented predilections, I do not believe that incestuous orgies, mental or otherwise, are among them."

"So you only mind-fuck my sister?"

"I much prefer one-on-one to group therapy."

"That's good, because I'm not into that sort of thing, even though I am Southern. Besides, I'm already spoken for -" she clamped her hand over her mouth. _Where did THAT come from?_

This comment earned another laugh. She wondered how many people on earth, other than Clarice, had ever heard the sound and lived. "I believe, in any case, that my balance sheet is currently in the red after our game of quid pro quo. If you would not find it objectionable, perhaps we could discuss your relationships, past and present, and discover how to overcome any obstacles impeding your feelings of security and fulfillment in that arena."

"Are you offering to help me? I mean, like, real therapy?" she asked, incredulously.

"Yes, of course. You need not look far for an excellent reference."

"I'm not sure that I can afford your fees."

"As I said, I always repay my debts." He stated simply. She was pretty sure he was referring to more than their game.

_Why not go all the way, then?_ "Um, Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes?"

"If Clarice and I can be sisters, then I was just wondering . . . well, that is to say, if you would be interested . . . " a pause, "I don't have all that many friends, maybe acquaintances, but not real friends, and I don't suppose that you do either – I offer you my friendship, if you would be willing to accept it."

The doctor smiled, the smile that frightens some, then offered his hand to her. "Come, Maggie, let's go back home."

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References: Maggie quotes from "The Prophet" by Khalil Gibran on the nature of good and evil

Hannibal quotes from Dante (of course), the "Divine Comedy"

Love, which absolves no beloved one from loving,

seized me so strongly with his charm

that, as thou seest, it does not leave me yet.

Canto V, lines 103-105

(The second I pulled from the web, so I hope it's accurate – haven't read it myself since high school)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Three Days Grace

Hannibal Lecter, intrepid explorer of the endless ocean of the human psyche, was congratulating himself on the success of his latest scouting mission, and looking forward to a more extended investigation in the coming days. Helping Margaret was incidental, as it would no doubt provide more insight into Clarice's past, not to mention a few delicious stories of childhood exploits that could be filed away for future "discussions." _How delightful_. He admitted to himself, however, that he was quite taken aback by her dual offers. He had not experienced many tokens of gratitude or reciprocity, particularly from someone who knew about him. He would have to consider the second, but he was genuinely relieved to know that Clarice could return to the love and support of family when the time came. Naturally, he was confident in her resourcefulness and in her fortitude, and he planted to seeds of his long-term plans whenever she was receptive, his possible loss still a subject from which she shied. But to have this opportunity . . . that was something unexpected.

He betrayed none of these thoughts as bandaged Margaret's knee while she squirmed nervously. She was still a bit apprehensive, and he found that to be most amusing. Once completed, he led his lover's sister back to her, and graciously excused himself to make dinner preparations. _Another flinch, Maggie?_ He could tell her that fish was on the menu, but where would be the fun in that? He left the women to enjoy a more appropriate reunion in private.

"Hey," Clarice said, red-eyed matching newly flushed red cheeks, "listen, about earlier, I was out of line. I'm just not used to trusting people, you know, I –"

"You didn't know," Maggie offered, "I should have given you the letters as soon as I walked in the door instead of trying to build up to some stupid Lifetime Movie of the Week moment. Do over?"

"Definitely. Where do we start?"

"Um, maybe with Daddy. I don't remember him so much, you know."

"O.K. Maybe you can tell me about Tommy. I guess he's gone, too, huh?"

Flash of anguish, eyes lowered, "Yeah, he died in the Gulf. He's a big part of why I came."

"Yeah, I would like to hear about him. You, too."

They talked for a few hours. Maggie learned of her father, and Clarice her brother and mother. Maggie told her about Sam, and Clarice offered a few safe vignettes about her own lover, knowing his preference for privacy. They all enjoyed dinner, inviting the chef to remain with them as they continued talking into the late evening. True to his word, Hannibal started his preliminary analysis of Margaret Sparrow with a promise that they would continue after a well-deserved rest. She remained as their guest for the night, surprising both the doctor and his charge.

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The next morning, Clarice and Maggie sat companionably on the beach, sand working between bared toes, making small talk to avoid the subject that neither relished.

"So," offered Clarice, "What's the deal with this Sam fella?"

"He's nice," she sighs. _Did Uber-shrink put her_ _up to this?_

"Nice?"

"O.K., he's better than nice. I just don't know . . . he wants kids."

"You don't?"

"Not sure. It has pretty great screw-up potential. I _am_ a Starling. What about you? Ever think about little ones?"

"Not in the cards."

"Because of, well, you know, your situation?"

"Nah, just never wanted them. Might be nice to be an aunt, though. Besides, the world needs a few more Starlings."

"I'll give it a think."

"Are you going to be O.K., Clarice?"

She considers, and then smiles, "Yeah, I'll be fine and better than fine. You know, if Sam is 'better than nice,' maybe you should keep him, kids or not."

"Yeah, you're right. Besides, he's hung like a moose." Grace snorted.

"Whoh, there, TMI!" Clarice giggled. When they both stopped laughing, Clarice finally said it. "Your flight leaves in two days."

"Yeah, I spotted that, too," Maggie offered, trying to laugh off the gravity of the discussion, "We can still cover a lot of bases between now and then."

A sigh, "I know. But you understand that we can't exactly show up for Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas, Labor Day, you get the idea."

"I know. I didn't think too much beyond just getting here and seeing you, to be honest. Didn't know if I would even get that far."

"So, that leaves us with what now?" Clarice looks at her younger sister, still getting used to the reality versus the imago.

"I don't know, Clarice, I really don't know. I think, maybe it's kind of like the whole afterlife and beyond thing."

"How's that?"

"Well, we don't know what, if anything, comes next. So . . . if nothing's next, what we do in the here and now . . . well, that's everything, right?"

"They teach you that crap in P-H-Dork school?"

"Nah, that's just life. How about a romp through the waves, Clary, unless you gave up jogging and think you can't keep up. You know, your ass is a little bigger than your pictures in the paper from a few years back?" She put on a big, shit-eating grin, as she challenged.

"Oh, _really_?" She gives a look of mock indignation, "Well, prepared to be schooled in this, _little sisa_!" A mighty splash of sea spray, and they're off, red tresses glistening in the sun.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – I Once Was Lost

_2 years later . . ._

The woman sits, waiting for the man to bring her cup of tea. He places the cup on the table beside her, waiting for her to come back to herself. She holds the familiar paper in her hands, folding it absently, a souvenir from an ocean away though, it shows few signs of wear. She thought the ship had sailed, back out to the strange depths beyond, this message she held her only token of her voyage. She smiles at the man, and he kisses her cheek, whispering that he'll be next door if she needs him. She reads the words again, now.

_Look how the same possibilities_

_unfold in their opposite demeanors,_

_as though one saw different ages_

_passing through two identical rooms._

_Each thinks that she props up the other,_

_while resting wearily on her support;_

_and they can't make use of one another,_

_for they cause blood to rest on blood,_

_when as in the former times they softly touch_

_and try, along the tree-lined walks,_

_to feel themselves conducted and to lead;_

_ah, the ways they go are not the same._

She had held on to that for a while, and it was almost enough. Now, she unfolds the new letter that had arrived yesterday, eyes dancing over the lines. Putting it down, she closes her eyes and sips from her warm cup, soul already on a sojourn as she rises from her repose and seeks out the man in the next room. _Time to set sail_. She smiles once more as she folds the letter's companion over in her hands, stars on the white of the sand dollar to guide her now.

Fin

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The poignant verse is "The Sisters" by Rainer Maria Rilke


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